Diamonds In The Rough
by Fox-In-Shadows
Summary: A woman with a troubled past meets a man who lives his life by helping others. Trouble is, she's earned a reputation akin to the one that he tries so hard to live down. My first attempt at Trigun fan fic'ing.


Diamonds In the Rough, part 1   
_ You'd be surprised what good there is in people if you take the time to look. There's_   
_always a little, but in some you find a lot, sometimes from the most unlikely sources._   
_Even the most hardened killer can surprise you with their willingness to help you stop a_   
_fight-even one they've started themselves..._

> > > > > **Diamonds In The Rough**

> > > > > Part One: So Little Kindness

  
The Wastelands.   
The suns glared down from overhead, all-encompassing, inescapable, baking the sand   
to rock and the rock to ash. No one moved at this time of day, at least, no one that was   
sane or possessed any instincts for survival. Nothing braved the suns at noon, when the   
air became the breath from a furnace and the coolth of dusk was so far away as to be a   
distant memory. Nothing. 

...almost nothing.   
A man strode through the empty wastes, unmindful of the heat that beat against the   
land like a fist. It shimmered his image to an illusion, so much so that any who might be   
passing (though, as mentioned before, none were fool enough to walk the wasteland at   
this hour) would have wondered at whether he were real or a trick of light and sand.   
Oblivious to his image, secure in his reality, the man walked on.   
He was tall, with hair bleached to the color of the sun above. Twin lenses protected   
his eyes from the sun and the world from his eyes. Over his shoulder he carried a large,   
oblong bag, patched from long use, and a long red coat flapped about him like something   
alive.   
He'd been walking, as usual, when he had seen a flash of light from metal where none   
should be, far out in the burning wastes. It was towards this he strode, pace measured and   
steady. He was certainly not traveling slowly, but he knew more than enough about the   
heat not to push too hard.   
The flash of light had been brief, and from a great distance. It took him close to four   
hours to reach its origin, and when he arrived he thought at first he was too late.   
"Hey...Are you all right?"   
The girl who lay in the sand did not answer.   
He could see the marks where she'd tried to dig a sunshelter into the side of a low   
dune, and though the sand was dry it afforded her a little shade. At one end of the trench   
she had stretched a jacket, presumably hers, from a pack to the ground and secured it with   
a rock, giving her a small triangle of shade in which she lay her head, body wedged into   
the shallow trench to avoid as much of the light as possible.   
This had been done earlier, however. Now that the suns had reached their peak and   
the shadows had dwindled to nothing, her safe haven was a haven no more. Only her   
jacket afforded any protection from the scorching radiance, and that little enough.   
He knelt down beside her, letting what shadow he had fall over her. An empty water   
bottle, misshapen from the heat, was grasped tightly her hand, as though it were a talisman   
to ward off the suns.   
Upon seeing this the voice of worry within his mind grew suddenly louder; how long   
had she gone without water?   
He carried within his pack a length of thin white cloth, a few short ropes, and assorted   
lightweight pegs and poles; a contraption that had been very useful over the years,   
whether as tent or hammock or myriad other articles. It was to this he turned now as a   
possible means of salvation for the girl, building with care around her the simplest form of   
tent.   
A pole at the front, one at the back, and one suspended between them, with the cloth   
stretched over this and secured in the sand. A triangle of white against the endless cream   
and gold of the wastes, large enough to shelter both himself and the girl (if he was careful   
about how he sat, and didn't lean anywhere that would bring the poles down) it stood out   
against the landscape like the man himself, an oasis in the desert.   
When the sun no longer beat down so directly on the girl's head, she stirred.   
"You gave me a scare, " he said cheerfully, as she opened sand-gummed lashes to look   
up at him. Her eyes, seen through a bloodshot haze, were a dark blue, almost gray, and   
her hair was blond, though much darker than his own. It was hard to see anything more;   
she had been protecting her face as best she could, and he winced internally as he noticed   
that even her makeshift shelter hadn't prevented the blisters from forming on her arms.   
"What were you doing all the way out here?" he asked, more to give her the   
reassurance of a friendly voice than from any hope of an answer, "This is a very bad place   
to be caught in unprepared."   
"I didn't...exactly...plan it..." she said, each word an effort.   
"Shh, don't talk, " he said swiftly, "Not until you've rested a little. Here, drink a little   
of this, " he added, fishing a canteen out of his bag and holding it to her lips, "Not much,   
now. Just a swallow, maybe two. Any more and you'll be sick."   
She followed his instructions, though it was clearly a trial; her eyes followed the   
canteen longingly as he took a small swallow himself, then capped it carefully before   
setting it to the side.   
"Well, friend, you've certainly gotten yourself in a fix, " he said, leaning carefully   
backwards, flinching a little as he felt a pole shift under his weight, "There's a lot of iles   
between us and the next town, you're not fit to travel, and I can't just leave you here."   
A muffled whimper was his only reply and leaning forward he saw her eyes roll up in   
the back of her head. Unconsciousness had claimed her once again.   
He touched the underside of her wrist gently; there was a pulse there, faint but steady.   
"Sleep well, friend, " he said, tucked his chin to his chest, and closed his eyes, awaiting   
the relief of sunset. 

The sky was lit with fading bands of scarlet, orange and gold. Purple edges on the   
horizon, little by little, began to devour the remains of the light.   
He hadn't been lying; it was a lot of iles to the next town, and his extra burden did little   
to improve his speed. But the girl hadn't come round by nightfall, so he had little choice.   
She moved weakly in his arms from time to time, as though she would fight being held,   
and muttered words he could not catch. He ignored this and concentrated on walking,   
one step in front of the other, as the night deepened overhead.   
He watched the moons rise, step after step, watched them travel across the sky until   
the darkness began to wane, until finally, when the first streaks of dawn began to light the   
horizon, he reached the town of September.   
He walked through the empty streets towards the end of town, where a long, two-story   
building bore a faded sign that designated it a hotel. He nearly had to kick the door down   
before a light appeared in the windows and a grumbling voice demanded to know what he   
wanted at this hour.   
At the sight of the burden the man carried in his arms the innkeeper's anger was   
mollified; quickly he led them to the only room he had available, an almost closet-sized   
space in the rafters of the inn, containing barely enough room for a single bed and chair.   
The innkeeper explained, as the man lay the girl down gently on the bed, that the hotel   
was close to bursting-apparently the legendary outlaw Vash the Stampede had been   
rumored to be heading towards a neighboring town, and there had been a mass exodus   
from there to here.   
The blond man smiled strangely as the innkeeper told him this, and paid him a little   
extra to go and rouse the doctor. He wanted to keep watch over the girl; she had stirred   
some strange feeling of protectiveness within him.   
The innkeeper's wife, a short, plump woman with a kind manner, had been presumably   
been alerted by her husband as to the ill health of their newest guest, and knocked at the   
door almost immediately after her husband had left. She shooed the blond man out of the   
room long enough to have a look over the girl and get her out of her sandblasted clothes;   
when he was allowed to enter again she was covered modestly with the sheet.   
"I put some of my daughter's old things on her, " he was told, "My Amelia's not small,   
but this one's arms and legs still stick out a mile. Still, I couldn't leave her to rest like she   
was; it'll take a month to beat the sand from her own clothes, poor thing."   
"That was very kind of you, " the blond man said, smiling, "I'm sure she'll thank you   
herself when she's up and around."   
"Odd, though, " the innkeeper's wife remarked, "There's hardly a mark on her from the   
suns. You'd think she'd be burnt to a cinder, but there's nothing on her except some old   
scars."   
He remembered the blisters on her arms, but the arm visible, pillowing her head, was as   
smooth and pale as any who had never braved the desert. He wondered perhaps if it had   
been a trick of the light, but the protective expression on the woman's face kept him from   
leaning forward for a closer look.   
The doctor entered then, and shoed him out once again. The innkeeper's wife   
remained within, he supposed as a sort of chaperone.   
Another short interval of staring at the featureless adobe walls and he was allowed to   
enter again.   
"Very extraordinary, " said the doctor, "You say you found her in the wastes? My dear   
man, she shows signs of heat exhaustion and dehydration, but there is not a mark on her.   
By all accounts, she should be dead!"   
"Well then, we should be thankful for the miracle, " the blond man said mildly, "What   
care will she require?"   
"Only rest, " said the doctor, packing his instruments into his bag, "I'll check in on her   
tomorrow morning, but until then she is to be left undisturbed. If she wakes, she can be   
allowed a few swallows of water every hour, no more. Call me if she takes any turns for   
the worse."   
He nodded his acceptance, and the doctor and the innkeeper's wife departed, the latter   
giving him a suspicious look on her way out the door. He did his best to look innocent,   
something that came surprisingly easily to him, and with a last mistrustful glance she   
closed the door softly behind her.   
Leaning carefully over the girl, he made another quick examination of her arm. It was   
indeed as the doctor had said, and as he himself had noted; there were no overt marks,   
certainly none of the blisters he had seen in the wastes.   
"Interesting, " he said quietly, and settled himself in the room's only chair, pulling it to   
face the bed in case she woke in the night. Soon he was fast asleep. 

A long, low whimper woke him sometime the next morning. He stretched, yawning,   
marveling at how many muscles could be painfully compressed when one spent the night   
in a chair.   
The girl was still asleep, and her dreams seemed to be far from restful. She   
whimpered again, hands crooked into claws.   
He leaned forward, brushed her hair back from her forehead gently, and she relaxed.   
She was very pretty, he decided; perhaps not quite beautiful, but definitely very pretty.   
Especially when the strain had faded from her face.   
"Shh, go back to sleep, " he said softly, "You need the rest."   
He began to hum a half-remembered tune, a quiet one, and lost himself for a while   
within the melody.   
It wasn't until he had finished it and opened his eyes from his reverie that he realized   
that she was awake and watching him.   
"Good morning, " he said, and smiled.   
She looked at him steadily. "Where am I?"   
"You're in a room in a hotel in a town called September."   
She blinked, assimilating this. "How did I get here?"   
"I brought you."   
He manfully resisted using the word "carried, " or adding any embellishments on to   
how difficult the journey had been, or how long he had walked with her.   
"What's your name?" he asked, and she continued to look at him steadily.   
"Fledge, " she said finally, "What's yours?"   
There was a knock on the door and the doctor came in, bustling importantly about.   
"Ah, so you're awake, are you? You were in a bad way, my dear; you're fortunate this   
man found you or you would have been a nice tender meal for the buzzards. Dear me,   
yes, you're lucky to be alive. How do you feel?"   
"Like a roast turkey, " Fledge said, and smiled slightly. The doctor laughed and placed   
a small glass of water on the table beside her.   
"You may get up at noon and not before, " he said, "After that you'll probably be able   
to get up and do some light walking, but nothing strenuous, all right? Drink your water   
like a good girl and get some rest."   
He patted her head, smiled paternally, and left, leaving her and the blond man alone   
again.   
She looked at him, at the way he was slumped in the chair.   
"Have you been there all night?"   
He jumped guiltily. "Part of it, " he said, then considered. "Most of it."   
Fledge smiled. "That's very sweet. I'm grateful to you for saving my life. I owe you."   
"Well, " he said, brightening, "If you owe me, how about letting me buy you lunch? I   
mean, you'd better have someone to keep an eye on you in case you have a relapse or   
something."   
"That would be nice, " Fledge said indistinctly, "In fact, I think I'm having one right   
now."   
With a soft breath she closed her eyes again.   
He leaned back in his chair and yawned, taking from the folds of his coat the pistol he   
had found beside her makeshift shelter. It was a modified .45 revolver, well-made, strictly   
functional, and recently fired. He pondered this for a while, knowing that the glint from   
the metal was the only thing that had saved her, and wondering in what spirit the trigger   
had been pulled.   
The hotel was nearly silent, enough that he could hear her even breathing and faint   
noise from outside. He began to hum again, quietly, wishing her good sleep until he   
dozed off himself.   
  
"Ummm...Excuse me?"   
He jerked awake with short gasp, as whatever he'd been dreaming escaped him.   
"Yes?"   
"Sorry to wake you, " Fledge said, yawning, "But...where are my clothes?"   
"I believe the innkeeper's wife is cleaning them. She said they were pretty dirty from   
your travels. I think she gave you some of her daughter's old clothes."   
"So she's the one who dressed me, " Fledge said, obviously relieved.   
"You don't think I...I mean, that wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me, with you being   
unconscious and all."   
She was watching him again, with that same appraising look. Guarded. As though she   
was trying to decide whether to believe him or run.   
"You're not very trusting, are you?" he said, slightly chiding.   
"These aren't trusting times, " Fledge replied evenly.   
"Sad but true."   
Then, unexpectedly, she smiled at him. It wasn't open, perhaps, but it was genuine.   
"If you were going to do anything bad, you could have done it while I was out, " she   
said, "Besides, you sang to me. I guess I can't worry about you too much."   
With a visible effort, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and levered herself   
carefully to her feet.   
"Hmmm, " she mused, half to herself, "Not hurt as badly as I thought. "   
The blond man took the opportunity to look her over, and, if he cared to admit it, liked   
what he saw.   
Her hair was dark blond and cut at her chin. She was tall, tall enough that her wrists   
stuck a good three inches from her shirt sleeves, and the pants hit her at mid-calf. The thin   
track of an old scar snaked out from beneath her left ear and disappeared down into the   
collar of her shirt, and a newer one showed pink along her forearm.   
"Sheesh, do they only grow short people in this town?" Fledge muttered, sitting back   
down in order to lace on her boots, "Not that I'm complaining, mind...It was nice of   
whomever it was to lend me something to wear...My old stuff got a little trashed during   
the...incident."   
This was hedging on what the blond man was interested to know.   
"What were you doing in the desert in the first place?"   
"I told you, " she said smoothly, "I didn't go out there on purpose. Ummm...I heard   
some mention of lunch? Is that still an option?"   
He held the door open for her by way of answer. 

There were several small shops that sold food along the streets; they selected one that   
was less than half full, and carried their food outside to the empty patio, sitting down   
beneath a large umbrella.   
Silence was the main feature through most of the meal; Fledge ate as though she   
expected the food to try and escape her, and the blond man's eating style was remarkably   
similar, if perhaps a touch more frenzied. Afterwards, Fledge leaned back against the iron   
railing that surrounded the patio and surveyed the now bustling town through content,   
half-slitted eyes.   
"A question?"   
He looked up from his plate. "Yes?"   
"When you found me, did you happen to find...?" She mimed a gun with her index   
finger and thumb.   
"This?" he asked, pulling the pistol from under his voluminous coat, "Yes, the   
reflection off of this attracted my attention in the first place. I took it down to the local   
gunsmith's earlier this morning; there was a lot of sand in the mechanism. It should be in   
perfect order now."   
Fledge smiled, taking the gun from him with the relieved air of someone regaining the   
use of a limb they had been afraid they'd lost. "Thanks, " she said, checking the action   
briefly before shoving it into a holster at her side.   
"No problem. Do you know how to use it?"   
She simply looked at him.   
"I could do some sort of flashy demonstration, " she said, after a moment, " But it's not   
really my style. You'll just have to take my word that I can use it. I'm not a crack shot,   
but I'm a good shot, enough to get me out of trouble."   
"Being a good shot generally gets you into trouble, not out of it."   
Fledge smiled. "There is that. But I've found that sometimes a bullet is the only way   
out of trouble, no matter what got you there in the first place."   
"There's always another way, " the man said seriously, "Always."   
"A pacifist who carries a gun like yours is either crazy or a hypocrite, " Fledge replied,   
but there was no malice in her tone, only amusement.   
"As you said, " the blond man shrugged, "These aren't trusting times."   
They were silent for a while, Fledge sipping carefully at her water.   
"Can I ask a question?" she asked finally.   
"Sure."   
"What's your name? In all the...excitement...I didn't catch it."   
He looked decidedly uneasy. "Well, um, I'm-"   
"Mr. Vash!" squealed a voice from somewhere behind them, "Oh, Mr. Vash the   
Stampede! Hi!"   
Fledge raised an eyebrow as the man winced. He ran a hand through his hair and   
sighed, raising a hand to gesture back to the tall brown-haired woman who leaned over the   
metal fence, waving madly at them.   
"Hello, Milly, " he said wearily, "Where's your high-strung companion?"   
"Meryl is getting us something to eat, " Milly said cheerfully, "Who's your new friend?"   
"Milly, this is Fledge, Fledge, this is Milly, " said the no-longer unnamed blond man,   
resigned, "What are you girls doing here?"   
"We're trying to catch up with you, " Milly said brightly, "We heard you were heading   
for Orange Ridge, and we were going to head that way, but now you're here so we don't   
have to go any further."   
Fledge smiled at him. "So you do have a name. That's comforting. I was beginning to   
wonder."   
Milly cocked her head sideways. "You know, that may be the first time I've ever heard   
anyone say that they were comforted by the sound of your name, unless they wanted to   
string you up and haul you in for the sixty billion double dollar reward."   
This was delivered in the same light, friendly tone, suggesting the mind behind the   
voice was unencumbered by normal human restraints such as tact or subterfuge.   
Fledge eyed Vash sideways. "You're the Vash with the price on your head?"   
He looked at her helplessly for a moment before shooting Milly a venomous look,   
which she utterly failed to notice.   
Fledge looked him over again. "Who'll give me good odds you don't deserve it?"   
"Well, " Milly began, before anyone could stop her, "He's supposed to have destroyed   
entire towns, killed whole families, wrecked lives..."   
She paused for a moment, sucking the tip of one finger in thought. "I'm sure there's   
more. I bet Meryl will remember...Oh, there she is! Meryl! Meryl, look who I've found!   
It's Mr. Vash the-eep!"   
Her last words were choked off as a small black cat landed on her shoulder, apparently   
using her as the last rung in the ladder from the low roof to the ground. It meowed once   
before leaping to the dirt and scampering off, apparently very pleased with itself.   
"Destroyed towns?" Fledge said, smiling slightly, "Killed whole families? You look   
like the type who has trouble swatting flies."   
He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. No worse for wear from the alliteration, Fledge   
grinned at him and shook her head.   
"I'm willing to bet you don't have it in you."   
He looked at her steadily. "Would you bet your life on it?"   
Fledge smiled, indicated the wastes, barely visible as they were on the horizon. "I think   
I already did, " she replied, and they shared a smile.   
"_There_ you are!" came an irritable voice from somewhere behind them, "Milly, I   
thought I asked you to wait and help me carry our lunch!"   
A shorter, dark-haired woman with a tray of food and a semi-permanent scowl   
approached them, expression getting darker-if that were in fact possible-when she saw the   
blond man and his companions.   
"We heard you were heading towards Orange Ridge, " she snapped, "What are you   
doing here? This is a peaceful town; these people don't deserve any trouble!"   
"I wasn't planning on bringing any, " Vash began, but the dark haired woman rounded   
on him like a prizefighter and he backed away hastily.   
"Who's this poor girl?" she demanded, acknowledging Fledge for the first time.   
"My name is Fledge, " Fledge said calmly, holding out her hand, "The man that you're   
screaming at saved my life yesterday, and I take things like that seriously. Please stop   
yelling at him. In the long run it will save us all a lot of trouble."   
Meryl stared at Fledge for a moment. "Are you threatening me?"   
Vash watched with interest as Fledge gave Meryl the same appraising stare that he'd   
been subjected to for the better part of the day.   
"Just a request, " she said finally. Meryl struggled with this for a moment.   
"Well, it's a good thing you weren't threatening me, " she blustered, "Because...   
Because I would have done something very nasty, I'm sure of it!"   
"She's really not like this normally, " Milly hastened to assure Fledge, "She's really very   
nice, it's just that we didn't expect to find Mr. Vash here, and unexpected things   
sometimes set her off."   
"No offense taken, " Fledge smiled, "Nice to meet you, Meryl, and you as well, Milly."   
"Excuse me, " said Meryl, setting the tray down on the table with more force than was   
strictly necessary, "Young lady, do you have any idea who this man is? Do you   
understand the kind of trouble you'll have just by being near him?"   
Fledge leaned back, considering. "I just learned his name, " she began, still in that   
same, calm tone, "I've heard the rumors, but the only thing I know for sure is that he saved   
my life. Other than that, I haven't the background to judge. Now, I appreciate your   
concern, but I'm well equipped to take care of myself. I'm also willing to bet that I'm not   
that much younger than you, if at all, so I would appreciate it if you would call me by my   
name and not 'young lady.' Finally, please stop lecturing me."   
Meryl glared at her, and upon finding it had no effect, turned it on Vash, who edged   
backwards in his chair, and finally on Milly, who smiled as though nothing was wrong.   
"Watch her, " Vash whispered earnestly out of the side of his mouth, as Meryl started   
angrily in on her food, "She can get pretty crabby from time to time."   
"What's she got against you?"   
"Well...It's like she said. Trouble does seem to follow me."   
"We ought to get along great, then, " Fledge said ruefully, "I've found nothing but   
trouble since the day I was born."   
"Where are you from, Ms. Fledge?" Milly asked.   
Fledge smiled. "It's just Fledge, please. No formalities among friends."   
Milly smiled back. "That's very nice of you. You can call me Milly. But...you didn't   
answer my question."   
"Yeah, I know, " said Fledge, and pushed away from the table. She staggered a little,   
but remained upright, and walked away down the road.   
"She seems like a very nice girl, " said Milly cheerfully, as Vash hastened to follow her.   
"Mark my words, " said Meryl, gesturing with her fork, "That girl is going to be just as   
much trouble as Vash the Stampede. You can see it written all over her."   
Milly squinted at the girl's retreating form.   
"I don't see anything written on her, Meryl. Maybe you've been out in the sun too   
long."   
Meryl sighed, and went back to her food. 

He caught up to her on the edge of town. "Hey."   
She stopped walking, let him come up beside her. They looked out across the desert   
for a moment, Fledge refusing to look at him, Vash kind enough not to look at her.   
"It's all right if you don't want to tell us where you're from, " he said, "I understand if   
you don't want to answer questions. It's none of our business, unless you choose to make   
it so."   
Fledge was silent a long time.   
"I could tell you, " she said finally, "But...I don't think you'd like me very much   
anymore."   
"Why do you think that?"   
"I told you my name, right? " she said, shrugging, "It's real enough; Fledge was the   
name I was raised with. It's just not what most people know me by. You might have   
heard of me by the name of the Young Hawk. I think that's what it says on the posters   
now."   
Vash blinked, but otherwise showed no outward signs of surprise.   
"I see, " he said carefully.   
It did explain a great deal-starting with why she hadn't been surprised or shocked at the   
mention of his name. The Young Hawk would hardly be appalled at hearing of another of   
her kind.   
"I've heard of you, " he said.   
"I've heard of you as well, " she replied, "You're not at all what I expected. I suppose   
you get that a lot. If I had known you were Vash the Stampede when you found me, I   
would have expected two in the back of the head rather than a rescue."   
Vash shrugged. "Sometimes the real thing falls short of the reputation."   
"And you're hoping I fall short of mine as well?"   
She smiled at him sadly. "I don't. I've done a lot of the things they've said I've done,   
though the 'blameless' ones the news say I've 'murdered in cold blood' were dark-hearted   
bastards who had been abusing and tormenting innocent people for a long time before I   
caught up to them."   
Fledge looked over at him. "Look, could I buy you a drink? I can tell you a little   
about the Young Hawk, if you like, and I'd like to hear more about the Stampede, if you're   
willing. It's just...I'm still a little sick from yesterday, and I don't know how much more of   
the sun I can handle."   
Vash jumped guiltily. "I'm sorry, " he said, noting at how pale she seemed, how she   
was shielding her eyes as though the gentle beams of sunlight were painful, "I'd be happy   
to listen. And, to tell the truth, I wouldn't mind a drink, either."   
  
Fledge said nothing more until they had entered the local bar, and only then to order   
herself a drink. One without alcohol, surprisingly enough, and Vash decided to follow her   
example-there was little use in getting drunk at this hour. The bartender gave them odd   
looks as he brought their orders, and gave them their change in stony silence.   
"So, " Vash said, when they had found an empty table far away from the other patrons,   
"Tell me about the Young Hawk. I've been hearing the name for two or three years now;   
I suppose it's high time we met."   
"It's a simple enough story, if a long one, " Fledge replied, and sipped cautiously at her   
drink, "I was born...well, I suppose it doesn't matter. The town isn't there anymore, hasn't   
been for a long time. I was raised by my great-aunt, a woman with of remarkable   
intelligence and strength of will. She taught me to work hard and be fair. Our village was   
small, but prosperous. We were peaceful. We didn't cause trouble.   
"One day a group of bandits came to our town and demanded our surrender. Many   
gave in, and saw their property looted and razed to the ground. My great-aunt was one of   
those who stood against them. They killed her, and everyone else who defied them.   
Except for me, and the other children. The bandits caught me, when I attacked them with   
the rake I used in the garden- it was the only thing I had. The leader laughed when they   
dragged me to him, said I had spirit but I was too small, so he'd have to throw me back.   
He gave me a lash with his whip to hurry me along, and they left me there, in the midst of   
the ruined town, with no one and nothing left to help me. I was eleven."   
Fledge was looking at the tabletop as she said this, and so did not see the sudden gleam   
of sympathy in his eyes.   
"I spent the next few years living as best I could, scavenging a meal here and there,   
stealing when I couldn't get a handout or a job doing odds and ends. One fine day I ran   
across a gunsmith, a widower, with a daughter my age. He took me in and cared for me   
like his own child. He was the one who taught me to shoot. His daughter and I became   
fast friends, and we remained so until we turned seventeen and set off with a caravan to   
visit some of her relatives. On the way, the caravan stopped to rest a few iles from a   
town. She was a sheltered thing, not adventurous at all, so I left her in our transport   
when I went to have a look around. While I was gone, bandits hit the caravan, and   
destroyed everything within it. When I came back, everyone was dead or gone. I never   
saw her again."   
"So that was the night the Young Hawk was born, " Vash said quietly.   
Fledge nodded. "I was crazy with grief. I vowed then and there that as long as I was   
able to fight back, no one would suffer what I had suffered. The gunsmith had given me a   
pistol he'd made with his own hands, and with it I hunted and killed those I saw doing   
wrong; murderers, bandits, corrupt officials, it was all the same. Some people paid me,   
some just thanked me. I kept moving all the time, kept taking jobs, until one day I   
realized that pulling the trigger didn't bother me any more. That was a bit of a scare. I   
never just killed for money, though; I always tried to weed out the bad ones, those who   
had done harm, had ruined people's lives."   
"Yes, " Vash said patiently, "But how do you judge? Isn't killing them the same act as   
their killing of innocents?"   
"I prefer to think of what I do as the lesser sin."   
He sighed and leaned back in his seat, tossing back the glass.   
"Let me tell you a story, " he began, "There was a man, once, that I met on my travels.   
A man who spent his early years in the worst kinds of occupations. He killed, he stole,   
and what he couldn't take by force he destroyed. Then, one day, he realized what he'd   
been doing was wrong. He stopped killing, stopped stealing, and found some honest   
work. He settled down, raised a family. He helped raise three beautiful children to be   
loyal and truthful and kind. Men and women can change, Fledge, but they won't get the   
chance if someone takes their lives from them."   
"The good he did didn't make up for the bad."   
He gave her back her own appraising stare. "How do you know? You stand before   
me now with blood on your hands and say you have a right to judge?"   
Fledge let out a long breath. "If you're saying I'm no better than they are, you're   
probably right. I won't argue that. But this is what I am, what I do."   
"You've got the chance to change. You don't have to kill. There are always other   
options. Your past doesn't determine your future."   
She snorted. "I'm hearing this from Vash the Stampede, the Humanoid Typhoon. I   
had thought that someday I'd have to do my best to kill you, to leave the world a little   
safer. Instead you save my life and shower me with declarations of harmony and   
reconciliation-if someone had told me a week ago that I'd be having this conversation, I   
would have referred them to the nearest mental hospital."   
Vash shrugged, tossed back the rest of his drink. "And if a week ago someone had   
told me that the Young Hawk, the Blood Hawk, as some would call her, was once just a   
frightened little girl with nowhere to go and no one to give her a kind word, I would have   
reacted much the same. It's a strange world, Fledge."   
"Too true. So...what do we do now?"   
"Well, " he said, setting his glass down on the table, "I don't know about you, but I can   
hear children playing ball in the square. I'm going to see if they could use another player.   
Care to join me?"   
Without waiting for an answer he strode out of the tavern and out into the sunlight, a   
somewhat puzzled Fledge following in his wake. 

The children had been playing a haphazard version of volleyball, using a handy   
clothesline as a net. They were happy for an extra player, and Fledge stood at a distance   
and watched, bemused, as Vash joined in the game with as much enthusiasm as the   
children.   
He almost constantly hit the ball in the wrong direction, apparently from sheer   
clumsiness, but Fledge notice that his misses were always managed in such a way that   
another child could save it. A painfully shy young boy in the back row was soon laughing   
and chattering to the children nearest him after he saved the ball from Vash's fumblings   
and received a loud cheer from his team.   
Vash kept making motions that she should join in, and soon the children joined him in   
entreating her. After a few hesitations, Fledge took her place on the side opposite his.   
She did her best to follow his lead while conserving her strength; using a few   
well-timed misses to give the less outgoing children a chance to shine. She also managed   
to give them a laugh in the form of smacking the ball off of Vash's head. It was a   
maneuver that she had not intended, but one both teams found extremely humorous all the   
same. He waved off her apologies with a good-natured grin and continued his carefully   
inept playing style.   
After a time, what had started as a game of volleyball soon fell into disorder; the   
children divided into loose teams, the object of each being to tackle the opposing team's   
designated member and drag them into a hastily drawn circle in the dust some fifteen feet   
away.   
Vash and Fledge were immediately nominated for the positions of target, a position   
that neither could manage to refuse, despite their vigorous protestations.   
"Take it easy, captains, I'm a little on the fragile side!" was the last words Fledge heard   
from Vash before he was overwhelmed by a pile of screaming children. She had little time   
to snigger at his fate before the opposing team were closing in on her with determination   
in their eyes.   
"Get her!"   
She threw her reservations aside as the children came for her, and gave herself up   
wholly to the game. Her agility was phenomenal; she ducked, dodged, and twisted out of   
the way, all the while laughing and panting and cheering her side on as they dragged a   
still-protesting Vash across the line and into the circle by his ankles.   
Five minutes of this and she was close to exhaustion; she let them drag her into the   
circle twice just to get her breath back. Then her second wind kicked in and she managed   
to save herself a few times, with enough skill that her own side joined in the effort in   
dragging her bodily across the line.   
Vash used this opportunity to sneak off towards the relative safety of the small cafe,   
but Fledge saw him leaving and managed to shake off her pursuers for long enough to go   
after him.   
Laughing, she ran up to him, gesturing for him to continue playing. Her smile all but   
blinded him; it was as though all the pain she carried with her had been shed like a cloak,   
leaving only joy behind.   
It was funny, he mused, how things people told you could come back to be applied to   
others. "You should smile like that more often. You really light up when you smile."   
It was more than that, he decided. She crossed the line to beautiful when she smiled   
like that.   
She grinned and took hold of his right sleeve, all but dragging him back to the game.   
"C'mon, Vash, they're down by four, they need you!"   
He allowed himself to be pulled back into the game, and spent the next hour happily   
being knocked down, run over, and generally mutilated by shouting and cheering children.   
Through it all he marveled at the warmth of Fledge's smile, as she rallied her side to tie   
with his (or, as she put it, 'gained a joint victory, ' which left both sides equally happy) and   
especially at those moments when it fell upon him. 

Later, when the children had been called in for lunch, they bought ice cream and sat   
down to rest in the coolth of an awning, catching their breath and enjoying each other's   
company.   
"You know, " Fledge said, watching Vash with amusement as he devoured his sundae   
as though it was his first meal after a three week famine, "This was quite possibly the   
happiest day I've had since...since I can't remember when."   
"Mmmph, " he said, around an enormous spoonful, "Sorry. I said, really?"   
"Yeah, really. I've seen so many children in trouble, I forgot what it was like just   
to...play."   
He smiled. "I'm glad you remembered."   
"I am too."   
"Still, " he said casually, "For someone who just spent the morning complaining about   
the sun, you've been awfully active."   
Fledge gave him another one of those searching looks. "I heal fast, " she said levelly.   
"So I see."   
He thought she would perhaps quit at that, but she surprised him by continuing.   
"I was born like this, or so I'm told. I rarely get sick, and little things like scratches and   
bruises just fade away within hours. Even that much sun couldn't keep me down, once   
you got me out of it. I don't know why it works that way. My great-aunt told me my   
parents were special, but she never elaborated."   
"What if I hadn't come along when I did?"   
"I would have fried to death, " Fledge replied levelly, "I couldn't have survived it for   
much longer. I still owe you my life."   
"Don't worry about it."   
Fledge snorted. "Don't worry about it, he says. Would you have saved me if you'd   
known who I was?"   
He blinked. "Of course."   
"Vash the Stampede, you're too damned nice for your own good, " Fledge said, but she   
was smiling as she shook her head, "Gods, I can't believe I just said that."   
Gunfire cut through whatever he was about to say, and both of them were suddenly   
vaulting over the low metal fence and running into the square, weapons in hand, as a wave   
of figures poured into the square on rusty motorcycles and makeshift cars.   
A high, thin wail kept Fledge from taking a shot; she looked towards the sound to see a   
child struggling in the grip of one of the bandits. The bandit in question held a large pistol   
to the child's head, clearing daring anyone to make a move.   
A large van, painted a garish red and yellow, rumbled slowly into the square. A man   
could be seen sitting in a lawn chair on the roof, shaded from the evening by a large   
umbrella. A smaller man drove the vehicle, leaning out of the window to shout through a   
large megaphone attached to the side mirror.   
"Attention citizens! The great Mirage and his loyal followers have come to town, and   
we request that you come forth to hear the terms of your surrender!"   
The van stopped next to the bandit holding the child, and her terrified wails carried   
through the megaphone and out across the streets.   
People began to assemble in the square, some with weapons, most with looks of   
mingled fear and anger on their faces. Some cocked their guns and looked meaningfully   
towards the bandits, but the sight of the captured child kept even the most hotheaded of   
citizens quiet.   
After a few minutes, when it was clear that all the village had assembled before him,   
the bandit chief stretched lazily and leapt down from his seat above the van.   
He was of medium height, with fiery red hair that hung down his back in a ponytail.   
He carried a thin metal bullwhip at his side, yellow LED's flashing down its length, and a   
rifle over his shoulder. He surveyed the gathered villagers and smiled at whatever he saw.   
The crowd drew back as he approached, all save the parents of the child, Vash, and   
Fledge, who stood at the forefront of the company.   
"I know you, " Fledge said quietly, "Don't I?"   
Images flashed through her mind; gunfire, glass breaking, figures crumpling to the   
ground, a hot, stinging flash of pain along her neck that knocked her over with the force   
of it. Over it all someone was screaming, pleading for mercy for the fallen, and after a   
moment she recognized it as her own voice.   
"_Rojo_, " she said, and Vash glanced nervously at her as a long, low growl trickled from   
her throat.   
The bandit leader bowed. "Quite correct, my dear, " he said easily, then, pitching his   
voice to the crowd, "My name is Rojo Mirage, and these are my companions. We would   
appreciate the immediate surrender of any and all inhabitants of this village, including   
yourself, after which we will begin to discuss the transfer of all your monies and   
valuables."   
The villagers stood motionless, stunned. Mirage smiled and took out a large, nickel   
plated pistol. Before anyone could react, he reached out and fired. A man in the crowd   
fell to his knees, clutching his shoulder.   
"Next time it won't be a warning shot, " Mirage said pleasantly, "And I'm afraid one of   
your children would have to suffer. I would like you all to throw down your weapons.   
Now."   
There was an instant rattle of machinery hitting the earth, some dropping whole   
gunbelts, some only the guns.   
Fledge hesitated, but only for a moment. She pulled her pistol slowly from the holster   
and set it down carefully down on the ground, Vash following suit beside her. 

_ Stay tuned, true believers, for part two...___

_Disclaimer: Trigun, and all characters in it don't belong to me; they belong to Yoshiro Nightow and misc. others._   
_Fledge, Rojo, and other incidental characters, and the plotline, do belong to me. c) Fox-In-Shadows. I think Mr. Yoshiro has the better deal :) No characters were harmed in the making of this fanfic...at least, not yet._


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